The Shared Experience

There is no real absolute beginning.

Country Fried Chicken Livers & Blueberry "Duck Sauce"

I have some doubts that stories even have endings.

There is an interconnection, a complex weaving of narrative―nothing all that complicated―the simple and beautiful intricacies like the petals of a flower. And yes I like flowers.

I really like food. I love language. I'm fluent in both English and Spanish, and with the right friends my French isn’t too shabby either. I cannot account to what happened to my Italian.

What I have is a deep affection for the love-language of preparing and sharing food.

It began with Grandma Julia’s Johnny Cakes or her Ackee and Salt Fish. Or with my dad’s Fasolakia Giaxni. Or with Chef Helen teaching me knife skills at Berry’s in Soho, saying that it’s a poor craftsman who blames his tools. I’d cut myself and it embarrassed and annoyed me. The next morning, I went to Bridge Restaurant Supply. I bought my first set of Henkels Four Stars.

Pick a beginning. The story is hardly over yet.

During a weekend in Miami, before I moved to Little Havana, Mia wanted me to hearken back to her MidWestern days. She asked me to make us fried chicken livers.

My mother was a career woman who often had two jobs and side projects on the weekends. I have fond memories of sharing food with her boss, Mr. Mennoni. He seemed to prefer treating me to breakfast at the diner or taking me out to lunch over business meetings. I’d order the classic New York scrambled eggs and cheese on a poppy seed roll. 

To this day, this is one of my great comfort foods.

It’s Fried Chicken Livers for Mia. And it’s my pleasure to make them for her. Mine are not the Missouri version she remembers, but that's no disappointment.

My version had been soaking in buttermilk and chipotle for hours. I dredged the livers in seasoned flour, dipped them in egg, and then breaded them with panko. I fried them in coconut oil until they were golden brown. I served them with fried rice, caramelized onions, and “Duck Sauce."

I decided to play with the Chinese take-out joint’s familiar condiment and put my own spin on it. Blueberry Asian Duck Sauce. It was a hit.

When it came time to serve the meal, it was comfort and love on a plate because what MFK Fisher said will always be true:

“Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.”

I don’t even take panko lightly. 

Mia doesn’t take fried chicken livers lightly, either.

Comfort food is a funny term. It’s deeper and more complex (not complicated, don’t get it twisted now) than comfort. It’s more than harkening back to memories of Missouri. The liver means connection to her, to a mother, like mine who worked hard and long and wasn’t always home.

It’s more than getting on the "Greek side of my mind." More than providing her with a sense of “meraki” from a guy who wants to cook for her and make her smile.

There is a shared experience beyond candlelight and comfort food. We could not fully know it at the table. We dipped chicken livers in blueberry “duck sauce." We were chatting and enjoying the food.

But we also enjoyed a moment of intricate and beautiful intimacy.

To encounter something so inward and to later talk about it. We got it. We got to share a private awareness that was as savory as the meal. This is something memorable and singular.

There’s a hole that only an egg sandwich can fill. Some personal thing that only fried chicken livers can soothe. But there's more. There's a deeper intimacy between two people that a great meal can gratify.

As we continue to grow and develop, we get to know each other a little better. We take the risk of pouring chipotle into buttermilk. We make NYC-style Chinese restaurant duck sauce with blueberries . . . we luxuriate in what we’re privileged to share. 

There is no beginning to this unfolding. Like the sympetalous blooming of a flower, there’s an ongoing narrative.

We're not concerned with beginnings and endings. We weave our very human experience, gracefully, through the meals we share. Because food is a powerful story. A love story.